Learning To Make Fire
by Levade
Summary: Lothíriel was quite content to marry Éomer King and have a practical, political marriage. Éomer needed a wife, needed heirs, and a wife who was politically savvy. The fact that they liked one another well enough certainly helped ease things along. It was not perfect, but then what marriage ever was?


**Notes**

Huge thanks to Unlos, who is not only the talented artist I wrote for, but also a source of encouragement. I finished this story at the last minute and she *still* created three more beautiful pieces of artwork for it and offered suggestions that made it a better story. Hugs! Thank you also to Senalishia, for the lightning-fast beta! The title is from Margaret Atwood's poem, _Habitation._

 **Beautiful art by Unlos, accompanying this story, can be found at A03 under author Levade with the same title. Written for the Tolkien Summer Reverse Bang 2018**

" _Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks."_

Samuel Johnson, _The Idler; Poems_

* * *

It had never been a love match, but then she had not wanted to fall in love.

She had dreamed of love once, but then war had come and the dark days had stolen away so much. So many hopes and dreams. So many young men.

No, Lothíriel was quite content to marry Éomer King and have a practical, political marriage. Éomer needed a wife, needed heirs, and a wife who was politically savvy. The fact that they liked one another well enough certainly helped ease things along.

It was not perfect, but then what marriage ever was?

She made herself sit still, willing her nervousness not to become fidgeting. Éomer had been nothing but a gentleman all evening, even when the Rohirrim grew increasingly rowdy as the ale flowed. Looking relaxed, a smile tugging his mouth, he had taken the teasing of his friends well, only rising to speak quietly when one of the men had gotten too crude in a remark that made Lothíriel blush a deep red. He'd escorted the man outside, allowing him to lean heavily on his arm before returning.

Sitting next to her, Éomer turned to meet her gaze. "The Rohirrim are honest people, Lothíriel . They speak bluntly, but not to wound. It is our manner."

"I know." Wishing the heat of her face would dissipate, she hoped she looked unflustered as she looked at him. "King Elessar advised me before we left Gondor."

"Oh, did he?" Éomer looked to where Gondor's king sat with his queen. As if sensing his gaze, Aragorn looked over and arched an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. A snort and Éomer turned back to his new bride. "And still you agreed to this marriage?"

Recognizing his attempt to tease a smile out of her, Lothíriel did her best, wishing that the fluttering nervousness in her stomach would stop. "Of course. I would never go back on my word."

He studied her for a moment, taking her matter-of-fact answer with a nod. "Of course not."

Both of them seemed at a loss what to say after that, sitting awkwardly next to one another under the sweet-smelling flowers and herbs woven into a garland that matched the flowers the bride had carried and the wreaths and other decorations in the hall. Lothíriel felt her palms start to sweat as the hall grew warm from all the candles and the fires lit and wished that someone would open the huge doors at the end to allow in the night air. Just when she felt she must get up and move or lose any and all of her calm, Arwen approached and held out her hand. "I believe we can leave the men to the celebration now, right Éomer?"

Éomer quickly stood and held his hand out to Lothíriel to help her rise. "Of course!" He gave her hand a squeeze and seemed as if he wanted to say something else but then just nodded and stepped back.

Accepting the Queen of Gondor's hand, Lothíriel saw several other Gondorian and Rohirrim ladies behind Arwen and felt a new wave of nervousness. Her gaze went to her father who was watching her with a concerned look that made her straighten her spine and step off the dais to walk with Arwen looking far more composed than she felt.

She knew what was to come. Her brother's sister had taken her aside in Gondor and made sure she had a _very_ thorough understanding of what marriage night would entail. While she was grateful, knowledge meant control to Lothíriel, she couldn't help but be uneasy. Elenial had assured her it was only awkward at first and after… Her besotted smile had said everything that words had not, but then Elenial was in love with Elphir and he with her.

Éomer was a stranger she had spoken to a handful of times before this day. They had so little in common, and every conversation today had been strained, both of them feeling the pressure of their decision as it came to fruition in the wedding.

But he was kind - she had seen how he tried to put her at ease and ensure she was as comfortable as possible. Surely that spoke well about what was to come?

Conversations wove around her, the women laughing quietly as they helped her out of her wedding dress then helped her bathe. After brushing her hair out of the braids that had hurt her head, being pinned so tightly, they helped her into the feather-light, embroidered nightgown that had been a present from Arwen. She watched with a pounding heart and nervous stomach as the others withdrew and only the Evenstar was left in the room.

Smiling kindly, Arwen took her hand and led her to a chair. "Sit, Lothíriel. All will be well. Every bride, even those deeply in love, feel a bit of nerves on the night of their wedding."

"Did you?" Realizing to whom she had just asked the question, Lothíriel hurried to say, "I'm sorry! I'm just…"

Arwen laughed and sat, taking her hands in her own and giving them a squeeze. "I was a little nervous, and that after decades of waiting for Aragorn."

"I cannot imagine."

Reaching into her gown pocket, Arwen pulled out a small silver flask and held it up, grey eyes twinkling. "Do not fear I seek to get you drunk, my friend!" She undid the top and let Lothíriel smell the liquid. "Miruvor. It is my father's own cordial." Her eyes dimmed for a moment, but she held it out and urged Lothíriel to take the flask. "It will help steady your nerves. Just one drink, now."

It was colorless and smelled wonderful. Lothíriel felt her stomach ease as the warmth of the cordial spread throughout her body. Even her mind, whirling in so many directions, seemed to settle, leaving her feeling still a bit nervous but calmer than before. "Oh, that's marvelous!" She gave Arwen the flask back.

"It is indeed." Reaching behind her to the shelf with Lothíriel's toiletries, Arwen considered for a moment, then plucked a small decorated vial and opened it to sniff at the contents. "Oh, yes. This is very nice." She offered it to Lothíriel who smiled.

"It is my favorite scent." Light, floral with a hint of spice, she felt better as she dabbed the vial behind her ears and on her wrists.

Taking the vial back, Arwen smiled. "Will you be all right now?"

Nodding quickly, Lothíriel smoothed her hands down the soft material of her nightgown. "Thank you, my queen."

Standing, Arwen held out her hands and embraced Lothíriel as she stood. "Éomer is a good man, one my husband speaks very highly of. Aragorn and I are both pleased that you accepted his offer of marriage." Hands on Lothíriel's shoulders, she looked into the young woman's eyes. "You must feel free to reach out to me with any questions, Lothíriel . I do not want you to feel abandoned here in Rohan."

Touched by the genuine concern she saw, Lothíriel nodded. "Thank you."

"Into bed now. Don't get chilled. And don't overthink this." Arwen went to the door as Lothíriel climbed into the large bed and pulled the quilts up. Her smile held a hint of mischief. "It's very enjoyable after the initial awkwardness."

Lothíriel shook her head, smiling in bemusement that her queen had come to see her made comfortable. Hands smoothing over the smooth sheets, she drew in a breath and leaned back into the pillows.

A knock on the connecting door and Éomer opened it slowly, standing in the doorway as if to assess her condition. He was dressed in a robe, feet bare, and for a moment they stared at one another. "Lothíriel ." Éomer entered the room and closed the door. "If you wish to …put this off until we know one another better, I'll understand." He met her gaze and she saw that he was also uncertain. Éomer, the man who had laughed at the thought of death in the midst of battle, and had (or so she had been told) fought at Aragorn's side and come out unscathed - this great warrior king was nervous?

He stood at the doorway, awaiting her answer. He would do as she wished. That spoke of a man who would be kind and gentle, caring as much for her as he did himself. It steadied something in her, something that had feared giving herself to a man she barely knew. Lothíriel smiled, knowing it was a bit tremulous, but that was all right. She was not helpless, not at the mercy of someone else's control.

She held out her hand. "Come to bed, Éomer." Her smile steadied as he closed the door, an answering smile warming his eyes, and reached to take her hand.

They would face this together and learn how to make it work.

* * *

 _ **Five weeks later…**_

They were seated at a small table in their chambers, sharing a morning meal as had become their habit. Éomer was reading through several letters, his meal already finished as Lothíriel worked on eating a bowl of porridge.

"Has it cooled too much?"

She looked up from pushing the contents of her bowl around to find Éomer watching her. "No." With a grimace, she pushed it aside. "I've never liked porridge much, at least not after my brothers told me it was made of dead insects."

A smile curled his mouth. "I should imagine that would dampen one's enthusiasm."

"Yes, well, you know Amrothos." Picking up a piece of toast, she spread some preserves on it. "He's fond of teasing us all."

"Especially his little sister." Éomer took one of the letters and passed it to her. "The report on early plantings, if you wish to read it. I'd like to hear your opinion and suggestions." He stood. "But now I must leave or be late."

"Late for what?"

"Going to the stables, of course." Éomer slid his knife into his belt and headed for the door. "Your father sent several of his mares for breeding and they're arriving today. I'll see you at noontide."

He was out the door before she could comment, but then Lothíriel did not particularly care for horses. They were too large, too unpredictable and she thought it entirely unfathomable why the people of Rohan found them so fascinating. They had a beauty, of course, but they also had too much hair that got on every garment, and were smelly. She picked up the report and began to read. Éomer could deal with the horses and she would happily turn her attention to the people and land. Those, at least, she could understand.

* * *

When the sun was highest in the sky, Éomer returned to their chambers, smiling and covered in horse hair. "Your father sent beautiful mares, Lothíriel. You should come and see them." He bent to wash his face at the wash basin, scrubbing his face before reaching for a towel. "Two of the mares are the heavier type he said they have been working at breeding in Dol Amroth. They have long hair around their fetlocks." Tossing the towel aside, he walked over to where she sat at her desk and leaned his hip against the window casing. "He also sent your gelding."

"Did he?" She smiled at the change in his tone of voice. Sadron was a placid creature who rarely could be encouraged to do more than a short trot, but he suited Lothíriel. "I suppose you don't approve."

With a grimace, Éomer ran a hand through his hair. "It is good you gelded him. He's got a narrow chest, ewe's neck and hocks like a cow." Shaking his head, he met her gaze. "He cannot be a comfortable ride, Lothíriel. Why don't you let me find you a suitable mount?"

"I like Sadron," she said, and stood. "He doesn't spook, he's easy to handle and if I must get on a horse I'd rather not have to be concerned that it wants to act up or race off at the slightest provocation!"

"Firefoot _had_ provocation." Pushing away from the window, Éomer crossed his arms. "He did not expect that pheasant to fly up almost under his hooves!"

She shook her head. " Sadron would never rear and race off like that."

"Of course he wouldn't, he can barely be bothered to lift his head and wake up!" Rolling his eyes, Éomer turned away. "I would prefer to see you ride a horse of Rohan, that's all, Lothíriel. We are proud of our horses, and the people might wonder if you are seen riding a horse like that."

"Let them wonder!" Reining in her temper, they were both getting annoyed over the ridiculous subject of a horse, Lothíriel sighed. "Is it truly such a terrible thing that I prefer a mount I can trust over a mount our people think I should ride?"

Turning to face her, Éomer was silent for a long moment. "It seems you cannot trust me to choose a suitably calm mount for you, one that I don't have to worry will break his leg on the plains or go lame every time you take him out. His hocks are truly the worst I have ever seen!"

It was true, Sadron did have a problem with lameness, but Lothíriel was not going to admit that now. "As I don't plan on riding a great deal, I don't see how it's a problem." She fought to keep her voice even. "It's not a matter of trust, Éomer."

"It seems that we are not in agreement." Éomer picked up a pair of gloves on a nearby table and walked to the door. "We're moving the herds to new pastures. I want to be certain the horses your father sent will be well settled."

Stubborn man! Lothíriel huffed and turned away as he left, staring out the window. Why did he insist on something that was going to make her so unhappy? It was entirely unreasonable. She turned and walked out of their quarters, heading for the small garden that was theirs alone. At least there she could be away from the prying eyes of those who watched her, just waiting for signs that she was discontent with her new home and husband. As she walked, Lothíriel pushed away the childish wish to feel sorry for herself. She had known what she was getting into in this marriage. Why couldn't Éomer understand that she just wanted a little bit of her former life to comfort her as she adjusted to life in an entirely different culture? Was that so terrible?

Lothíriel sat on a bench under a large oak, looking up through the boughs that spread above her. The shade cast from the leaves dappled the ground and stole some of the heat of the sun as it rose. It was promising to be a warm day. Already the green grass of the plains were growing as high as a man's knees. She loved to watch the wind roll and play through the tall grass. It reminded her of the waves of the seas where she had grown up.

Spring was giving way to summer but the gardens were still in glorious bloom, and the fruit trees that had been white and pink with blossoms, the bees buzzing happily from flower to flower, were full of tiny fruit. Éomer had said that come the end of summer it would be bountiful harvest that spoke of prosperity for their people.

She only hoped that it boded well for her also.

* * *

"Lothíriel."

The soft voice broke through the fog of sleep clouding her mind, but Lothíriel found it hard to move. "Mmmm."

"You need to move or you'll have a terrible neck ache in the morning."

A warm hand cupped her shoulder, sliding down her arm to her elbow. "Come, now. Wake up just a little and I'll help you to bed."

She realized muzzily that it was Éomer urging her to rise and frowned. "'m fine."

A soft laugh blew warm breath on her neck and made her shiver. "A bench is a poor substitute for a warm bed, Lothíriel." Hands slid under her arms and lifted her, ignoring her protests. "No, I'll not leave you here, shivering, my wife."

Lothíriel blearily realized he had slid his arms under her knees and lifted her. Cradled against a solid, warm chest, she sighed, letting her head rest on his shoulder. "Still 'nnoyed."

"Are you?"

Why did he sound so amused anyways? Working up some energy, she managed to poke his chest. "'S not funny."

"Ah, I misunderstood."

She was carried to their room and laid on the bed, eyes still refusing to open, and felt a kiss pressed to her forehead.

"Sleep, Lothíriel. We'll talk in the morning."

Heavy quilts came up over her, and the warmth lulled her back to sleep before she could reply that she was _not_ tired, thank you very much!

* * *

Lothíriel fully expected to awaken and find Éomer up and gone. He was far more a morning person than she, and seemed to relish the cool air and watching the sun rise. She rolled over and was surprised to bump into a solid, very warm form. Before her mind could alert her that she was still annoyed, she snuggled closer. The mornings were cool still and Éomer insisted that a window had to be open to let in fresh air in order for him to be able to sleep. A muscular arm curled around her waist, pulling her closer, and she cuddled up to the strong body radiating heat, murmuring a pleased sound as fingers gently ran through her hair.

Her hair. It had been braided for sleep! Eyes snapping open, she stared into blue eyes ringed by black. "How long have you been awake?"

The slow smile that curled his lips chipped away at her annoyance. "A while."

"Just ...laying here?"

"Mm-hmm." Those long fingers continued to comb through her hair as he leaned in to press his lips to her forehead. "Watching you sleep."

"Why?" It was out before she could stop it.

A laugh rumbled from his chest and he cupped the back of her head. "So many questions this early, Lothíriel." His eyes darkened as he looked at her. "Cannot a man admire his beautiful wife?"

"Of course, but..." Pulse picking up as he continued to gaze at her, she decided to let the mutual attraction have its way. Rohan needed an heir after all, and in honesty...it wasn't all that horrible after all. Moving closer to twine her legs with his, she lifted a hand to brush the blond hair out of his face. "Waking me could have been much more satisfying."

Fingers tightening in her hair, Éomer rolled her onto her back. "I think the wait was worth it."

Lothíriel could only agree. The wait was definitely worth it!

* * *

"He is _**not**_ too old or lame or -"

"Lothíriel, _please_."

Mouth set in a stubborn line, Lothíriel stood at Sadron's shoulder, stroking his nose and glared at Éomer who looked as frustrated as the day he discovered she had moved his sword from under the bed to the smaller dressing room. He had tried to be patient and explain that it might be needed, there were still Wargs and Orcs roaming the lands, and the dressing room was no place for a sword. In the end they had both expressed their opinions loudly enough that the house staff had tiptoed around for the rest of the day. They had not come to a satisfactory agreement though she knew very well Éomer had moved Gúthwinë back to its spot under the bedframe and just let it be.

Some battles could not be won.

She had a feeling this might end the same, but was determined to stand up for her horse.

Éomer drew in a long breath before speaking, blue eyes glinting. "Look at how he stands! It pains him to walk because he has a bone spavin. You can see it here and here." He pointed to both back legs where the lower hocks looked larger than they should be. "He walks toe first because it hurts." Huffing as he gently ran his hands down the horse's leg, Éomer shook his head. "We have tried changing his shoes and it is better, but Lothíriel..." He straightened to meet her gaze. "He is in pain just walking. You cannot ride him any longer."

"You cannot put him down!"

"I was not suggesting we put him down, Lothíriel! Béma give me patience!" Éomer reached out to calm Sadron as he threw up his head and sidled sideways, stumbling. "Shhh...peace, brother. I am sorry." The gelding blew a long breath but calmed as Éomer rubbed his forehead. His eyes still sparkled in anger as he met Lothíriel's gaze, but his voice was calmer. "I am only suggesting that you not ride him and that we put him out to pasture with the other horses who are too old to ride."

She fought the tears, hating to cry in front of Éomer and all the stable hands watching but felt them well up. Sadron was a beloved friend, a confidant of all her childhood woes and frustrations (and with her brothers, there had been many). They had adventured up the coast together, pretending that she was a valiant explorer and he was her faithful steed as they discovered the coves and shorelines of Dol Amroth. "He has been my horse since I was ten years old!" Pressing her face to Sadron's neck, she breathed hard, trying not to cry.

"Leave us." Éomer gestured for the stable hands to leave and waited until the last one was out of earshot before moving to place a gentle hand on Lothíriel's neck. "I am sorry. I know how hard it is to part with an animal you love." He rubbed her back waiting patiently as she cried. Sadron turned to bump her shoulder and Éomer softly laughed, reaching to comb his fingers through the horse's mane. "See, even Sadron is trying to tell you it will all be well."

She knew she was over-reacting, but it felt like the last tie to her old life was being cut before she was ready to let go. Lothíriel straightened and wiped her face with her hands. "Is he in great pain?"

"When he walks too much, yes. The shoes we put on him are helping and Ealhstad has a remarkable paste that he puts on the hocks that seems to ease the stiffness." He reached out to brush a wayward strand of hair out of her face. "You will be able to see him every day if you wish. We keep them in the pasture just outside the stables and bring them in at night to keep them from getting too cold." Éomer gestured to a horse standing just across the stable from them. "That is Cyneric, my first horse. He's an old man, has terrible eyesight and is almost deaf, but look at him." He smiled as the horse nickered upon hearing his name. "Yes, I'll be there in a moment, Cyneric."

Lothíriel sighed and ran her fingers through the tangles in Sadron's mane. "I am sorry. I know you only mean the best. It's just..."

He turned her and pulled her into his arms, hand cupping the back of her head as she pressed her face into his shoulder. "You don't have to explain. These horses are our brothers, our sisters. We know their lineage as well as we know our own and we care for them as family."

She nodded and put her hands on his chest to step back, still in his embrace. "Then we need to find a new mount for me."

Éomer nodded and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We will find you a horse that you will love as much as you do Sadron." His gaze went to the rolling fields behind the stables. "We'll be bringing the herds in to run between the bonfires at Litha."

Wrinkling her nose, Lothíriel frowned. "We did that at Beltaine."

"We are superstitious people then." He winked before stepping away. "The foals were not born that early in spring, and now they're old enough to make the journey with the mares." Leaving the stall, he crossed to the other side where the oldest horse Lothíriel had ever seen whickered softly as Éomer spoke quietly to him and rubbed his forehead. "That will probably be a good time for you to look at the mares and geldings if you want."

Reaching into her pocket and pulling out a chunk of carrot, Lothíriel offered it to Sadron before leaving his stall. She closed the stall door and smiled as she watched Éomer coo at his old mount. "How old is he?"

"Ah, he was Theodred's before he came to me." Éomer made sure the horse had clean water and plenty of feed before turning to her. "He is thirty-four." He grinned at her surprise. "That's not the oldest we've ever had either!" Offering her his arm, he walked them towards the fields. "There was a horse in Aldburg when I was...probably five. He was forty. I remember it clearly because my mother doted on that horse."

"Had it been her horse then?"

"Aye, and likely her mother's before."

"That is remarkable." The grass was rolling in the wind, flashing light green before the wind switched and showed a darker swathe. "I've never known a horse to live so long."

Éomer nodded. "You will here. They are our life's blood."

The pride in his voice made her smile and Lothíriel lifted her face to the sun. It eased her heart to see good in these solid, seemingly simple people. They had not the great cities of Dol Amroth or Gondor with their towering stone walls and ancient grandeur, but they had the heart and soul of people who lived in quiet peace with the land.

She was beginning to feel that she might belong after all.

* * *

Éomer lifted a cup high as did everyone on the large green field of grass. Several bonfires burned high and bright, and over on one side of the field, away from the gathering of people, there was a wooden contraption that reminded Lothíriel of a catapult. She couldn't wait to see what it did. "Light and life abound, and we joyfully turn outward, experiencing the joys of plenty, tasting the first fruits of the season!"

She raised her cup before taking a sip of the strong mead the Rohirrim drank like water. It was going to be quite the celebration from the looks of things. The great herds of horses had been brought in, mares and foals separated from the rest of the herds for they were to be driven between the bonfires for a special blessing. Hopefully no drunken couples would attempt to leap over these bonfires. They were far larger than those at Beltane.

"See there, Lothíriel." Éomer moved to stand closer and pointed to where men were lighting torches. "They will carry those to the herds of goats, sheep and kine and the crops, to bless them, and everyone will take a bit of the fire home to re-light the fires in their hearths. This day is the longest and from here on the days will slowly begin to grow shorter until winter," Éomer added. "We celebrate the coming of the harvest, and, as you'll see, there were will be a number of weddings." He pushed his crown of oak leaves so it was straight upon his head and continued. "Some of the unmarried women will collect flowers, I don't know the right ones so you'll need to ask someone else, and place them under their pillows to dream of their future husband."

"It all seems quite tame after Beltane."

"Yes, well..." Éomer grinned. "It's not dark yet." He straightened her wreath of flowers. "Also -"

Whatever he had been about to say was drowned out as the sounds of horns filled the air. Lothíriel turned to see several of Éomer's riders blowing their horns as they walked around the gathering.

"To frighten away evil," Éomer told her, leaning closer so she could hear him.

Lothíriel nodded, but shivered as the horns sounded.

"Are you cold?"

"No, no...I was just thinking of something my father said." She watched the Riders. "He said that when he heard the horns of Rohan sounding in the dawn over the Pelennor it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard." Lothíriel met his gaze. "They were not sure Rohan would answer."

"Yet we did."

"Yes." Her gaze went to one of the banners, streaming proudly in the breeze, the white horse of Rohan brilliant against the green. "Your arrival likely saved my father."

"Those were dark days." Éomer's gaze was distant, his face a grim mask.

"But today we celebrate the light." She touched his arm lightly, aware that sometimes soldiers relived memories and knew it was best not to startle them. "The return of peace and plenty for all of Rohan."

Drawing in a deep breath, Éomer finally nodded. It was a moment still before he answered, gaze tangling with hers. "This is what we fought for." He touched her face and finally smiled. "Shall we go look at the foals and mares?"

Lothíriel nodded and took his arm. There was something in his gaze that had not been there before, or perhaps she just had not been looking for it, but it wrapped around her like a warm cloak and she smiled in answering joy. "I suppose there is one you have in mind for me?"

"Perhaps." He squeezed her hand. "But the final choice is yours."

"Then lead the way, my lord."

* * *

Lothíriel laughed as one of the foals nuzzled her face, and took a mouthful of her hair.

"It's not often they see hair that color."

"He's adorable." She watched as the colt backed away before snorting and turning to race away back to his dam. "You have some black foals!" Éomer had told her that the enemy had stolen away most of their black horses before the start of the war. His anger at such a desecration of the horses of Rohan had been clear.

"Most of them will likely lighten as they grow older." Scratching the shoulder of a mare, Éomer smiled as he watched the foals race around the paddock. "But several look as though they might remain dark."

"How can you tell?"

He gestured for her to follow and walked to where a dappled grey mare grazed. "See how dark her legs and mane are, and the dapples are very defined?"

"She's beautiful."

"Indeed, but look over there. See the white mare with just a touch of grey on her legs?" As Lothíriel nodded, he smiled. "That is her dam. Her mother."

"They grow lighter as they age."

"Usually." He knelt as a foal approached and chuckled as it attempted to steal the wreath of oak leaves from his head. "Little scamp. Back to your dam!"

Flipping its stubby tail, the foal reared and then turned to run, bucking as it went. "That is one of Firefoot's foals."

"Just as full of it as his sire I see."

Eyes glinting with amusement, Éomer arched an eyebrow. "Are you speaking ill of my war horse?"

Lothíriel sniffed and looked away, hiding her smile. "He's an unmannered lout."

"You only say that because he ate the carrots you brought for Sador."

"They were not for him!" She huffed. "I was only at his stall to speak to you and he just grabbed them out of my hands."

Éomer laughed. "He is impetuous, is that a crime?" He held out his hand. "Here, I see the mare I thought you might like."

She allowed herself to be led through the pasture to where a younger mare stood, grazing. No foal stood near her, and she raised her head to watch them as they approached. She was tall for a mare and looked strong enough to carry one of Éomer's Riders. Her front legs were dark, almost black and her mane and tail were also black. Dapples, like tiny stars, covered the rest of her body. The mare nickered quietly as they stopped, and walked towards them.

"She's just over four years old," Éomer told Lothíriel. "But well-trained to saddle. She's spirited but has a gentle nature."

Lothíriel held out her hand and let the mare snuffle it before stepping towards her. "Hello, beauty." Great dark eyes watched her, alight with curiosity but they looked kind. The mare snorted and took a step closer, and Lothíriel raised her hand slowly to rub the mare's forehead. "Does she have a name?"

Éomer shook his head. "We don't name a horse until they carry a rider." He smiled at her delight. "Do you like her?"

She moved to run a hand down the mare's neck to her shoulder, then down her back. "She's very large, larger than Sadron."

"Yes, and likely sturdier." Éomer spoke quietly as he moved to the mare's other side. "Strong shoulders and quarters, she's a fast runner." He met Lothíriel's gaze over the mare's back. "Which might not matter to you, but I would prefer you have a mount that can carry you away from any potential danger. There are still creatures that come down from the mountains at times."

"I'm not likely to be riding alone."

He didn't answer, but his gaze remained unwavering.

"May I ride her?"

"Of course." Moving to her side, Éomer bent and offered his cupped hands to her. "Up you go."

"Right now?"

"Why not? You're wearing a suitable outfit."

Split skirts were far more comfortable when riding and Lothíriel had grown used wearing them, though in Dol Amroth they would not be considered suitable day attire unless you were riding. Then again, she was on a horse more now than ever. Stepping into his cupped hands, Lothíriel landed lightly on the mare's back, and grabbed a handful of mane as the mare shifted. "Whoa...easy."

"She won't run away on you." Éomer stroked the mare's neck and spoke quietly to her. He clicked his tongue and began walking, the mare obediently following. She moved out in a smooth, ground-eating walk, following Éomer as he made his way around the pasture.

She felt as though she was so far from the ground! Lothíriel began to relax, forgetting her fear as it was clear the mare was not going to throw her or go racing away.

"She has a floating trot as well, which is definitely an advantage." Éomer stopped and turned to look up at Lothíriel. "Not to disparage Sadron, but his trot was jarring."

"Do I need to decide today?" She leaned forward to run her hand down the mare's neck. "She is nice, but I'd like to see if we suit one another before I decide."

"You can take all the time you need, Lothíriel." Éomer met her gaze. "I won't rush you into anything."

She smiled, pleased with the answer and gestured back towards where the bonfires were still burning high, even as the sun sank down towards the horizon. "Those tall structures. What are they?"

Grinning, Éomer came to her side and held out his hands. "Another very old tradition. See how they are turned towards the fallow fields?"

Lothíriel nodded and accepted his help down, a little surprised when, instead of setting her down, he pulled her against him, his arm going around her waist. "Is this really proper? I already have a husband, you know." She put her hands on his shoulders and looked down her nose at him. "I doubt he would approve."

"Stuffy, is he?" His blue eyes were full of amusement.

"Mmm...at times." She grinned. "Usually when he's had to listen to his advisors all day."

A snort and Éomer lowered her to the ground. "Stuffy, am I?" He still held her close.

She laughed and reached up to stroke at the frown lines between his eyebrows. "Only sometimes."

Capturing her hand, he kissed the palm and smiled against the skin, watching her eyes darken. "We'll just have to discuss this later."

"I look forward to that discussion, my lord."

Giving her one last look, Éomer offered his arm and smiled as she took it. "My lady, let us go see how the Rohirrim help change the course of the sun."

* * *

Lothíriel smiled to herself later that night as they laid in bed, her head on Éomer 's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The celebration had lasted long into the night, but she and Éomer had left their people to celebrate in a far rowdier fashion than they wanted, and ran to the bedroom, laughing like children before falling onto the bed to have their own celebration of life. "So those burning disks the machine shot towards the sun..."

"Mmm." Éomer continued to run his fingers through her hair.

"Those are to change the course of the sun."

He rumbled an agreement then grinned when she leaned up, better to look in his face. "I told you, it's a very old tradition."

"But how..."

"Lothíriel." Laughing, Éomer pulled her to his chest. "Ask Wystan, he is the bard and keeper of all things ancient and dusty."

"That is _not_ a title."

"It could be."

"You would not name him-" She poked his chest as he laughed and leaned up again. "I changed my mind. You aren't stuffy, you're incorrigible."

His smile softened and he reached up to trace her eyebrows before threading his fingers into her hair. "And you are more than I hoped for in a wife."

His quiet admission took her by surprise and she stared for a long moment. "Did you hope to ...to be happy?"

"I hoped for the improbable." At her confused look, he nodded. "I hoped to love."

Lothíriel held his gaze. "I hoped we would be compatible and not argue all the time. I thought it would be too much to think we would have much in common."

"Is that all you wanted?"

"No." His hair glinted golden in the firelight, and she shifted to push her fingers into the golden mass. "But love, that seemed like an impossibility."

Éomer's look was tender. "Then it seems we have achieved the impossible." He smiled at the joy in her face.

Moving to kiss him, she smiled. "And the improbable." She made sure he could not answer, for words were awkward things too finite to express a truly infinite thing such as love.

* * *

She dreamed she was seated on Leofflæd, the mare standing on a green field that stretched towards a tree line far off in the distance. Dressed in a flowing, diaphanous gown, she had a wreath of lavender flowers on her ankle and the mare also wore a garland of the same flowers. A golden armband, the gift Éomer had given her for their first year of marriage, was warm and snug on her right arm.

 _Welcome_ _home_ , the land seemed to whisper in the breeze that played with the strands of hair on her neck. _Welcome home, child of Eru. We remember your kindred and welcome new life_...

Lothíriel awoke and blinked, feeling a little dizzy at the suddenness of awakening. Éomer's arm was warm around her waist and she relaxed into the heat of his embrace. The odd dream played in her mind and she sleepily wondered if the kindred was her very distant Elvish ancestor. What an odd, fanciful dream! She smiled and had just started back to sleep when she realized the second part. "Éomer!" Lothíriel turned and shook his shoulder. "Éomer, wake up."

He jolted awake, almost knocking heads with her as he sat up suddenly. "What? What's wrong?" His hand groped towards the side of the bed where Gúthwinë was, or so he hoped. Then his bleary gaze focused on his wife and he stilled. "Lothíriel? What is it?"

She was lit as if within, joy shining in her eyes. "I know what the dream meant!" She took his hand. "Éomer...I hope you're ready." Lothíriel grinned. "You're going to be a father!"


End file.
